The Gentle Rebel (20 page)

They spoke of the affair briefly; then Nathan gave a smile and put his arm across Laddie’s shoulders, saying, “They’ll hang you as well as me, Laddie, if they catch you. You sure you want to be in this thing?” The pressure of his arm gave Laddie a peculiar sensation, and she said quickly, “Yes! I don’t know much about politics, Nathan, but I believe men ought to be free.”

He seemed to forget that his arm was there, but let it rest on her shoulder for a few moments. Then he moved it, adding, “I guess freedom is a pretty scarce commodity in this world, Laddie—but if it’s to be had, I guess it’s worth fighting for.”

“What’s the matter with you, Major? You’re sober as a Puritan preacher tonight!”

Major Pitcairn looked up to see Paul Winslow with Abigail Howland on his arm. He stood up at once, saying quickly, “I deny the charge, Winslow! But you’ve kept the most attractive woman at the ball captive all night long, so the fault is yours if I’ve been moping and feeling sorry for myself.”

The truth was that the officer really was not enjoying the evening. The food and drinks had been excellent, the company drawn from the best in Boston, and there were, in fact, several attractive young women who had put themselves in
his way. He was in a bad frame of mind and he knew it, but now he denied all, saying, “I say, Miss Howland, if you can tear yourself away from this fellow, put a poor soldier down for a dance, will you?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me, Major,” Abigail smiled. She had a way of making trivial remarks sound true.

The baggage can no more help flirting than she can help having hazel eyes!
Pitcairn thought. It was common knowledge in Boston—at least in the upper levels of society—that Abigail was having quite a game with the Winslow cousins.
Looks like Paul has won by default,
he thought sardonically.

“I haven’t congratulated you on your gallant conduct, Major,” Abigail said. “Now, I demand that you tell me all the gory details.”

The words raked across Pitcairn’s memory, and he said a little sharply, “There was no gallantry that day—not on my part, at least.”

“Why, you defeated the rebels, didn’t you, John?” Paul asked in surprise.

“If General Percy hadn’t gotten to us with a rescue party,” he said with a tight-lipped grimness, “not a man of us would have lived to see Boston again!”

“But—I heard that the marksmanship of the rebels was terrible,” Paul put in.

“It was good enough to beat the King’s troops,” Pitcairn said. “You have to remember, Winslow, these men were farmers and tradesmen, not professional soldiers or frontiersmen.” He shuddered briefly, adding, “They cut us to pieces as it was—what will it be like if they get organized into a regular army?”

“Oh, they’re a rabble in arms, Major!” Abigail insisted. “It’s unthinkable that England could be defeated by a bunch of shopkeepers and farmers. Why, our armies have defeated Spain, France, and the best of Europe’s trained might.”

“That’s true,” Pitcairn nodded, “but it’s just as true that these wars have so sapped our strength and scattered us all
over the globe to keep the empire together that we have precious little in the way of troops to spare on this little theatre. And I don’t think you realize how far this matter has gone.”

“What do you mean, Major?” Paul asked.

“I mean that we are caught in this city, Paul. We are a good force here, but our scouts tell us that we are surrounded by thousands of men from all 13 Colonies. New Hampshire has sent a force under Colonel John Stark—and I can tell you now, he’s a good soldier! Then there’s Israel Putnam with 3,000 men from Connecticut, as well as Benedict Arnold and Nathan Greene, just to mention a few. South Carolina has voted to raise 2 infantry regiments of 750 men each and a squadron of 450 mounted rangers—and the list goes on and on! ”

“Oh, Major, these troops aren’t trained!”

“No, thank God—but all that it takes is
one
man who knows how to whip an army together—and when
that
happens, we’re in for a fight!”

“Come, Major!” Abigail said, and she smiled at him, adding, “What you need is more wine and some fun.”

She pulled him away, leaving Paul alone. For the next half hour, Pitcairn did enjoy himself, for with such a beautiful woman, how could it be otherwise? Then she left him, and he moved back into the secluded area, taking a chair and watching the dancers sail by across the polished floor.

He was about to rouse himself and leave when a voice said, “Hello, John.”

“Nathan!” Pitcairn rose at once as he looked up to see Nathan Winslow in front of him. “I didn’t know you were in Boston.”

“Just got back.”

Pitcairn felt more uncomfortable than he ever had in his life. There was nothing of anger in Nathan’s face, but neither was there the open friendliness that had been there before Lexington. There was a stubborn streak of honesty in the officer, and he went right to the issue. “Nathan, it does so
little good—but I’ve grieved over the death of your brother. It was a foolish thing—so useless!”

Nathan gave Pitcairn a steady look, then shook his head, “I know it wasn’t your fault, John. I bear you no ill will.”

“That’s like you, Nathan,” Pitcairn said with some relief. Then he asked, “What will you do?”

“Go back to work, I suppose.” The question, Nathan realized, meant more than that.
So it begins,
he thought suddenly.
A spy can never forget what he is—not for one second!
He added idly, “I suppose you’ve been busy?”

“Too true!” Pitcairn said ruefully. “I can’t say that I understand General Gage!”

“How’s that, John?”

“Why, a child can see what’s happening! We’re living in a state of siege, and it’s just a matter of time until we have to do something about that army that’s taking shape out there!” The major shook his head sadly, then added, “But the general just sits there, hoping it will all go away!”

Washington needs to know that!
Nathan thought, then was saddened by the knowledge that John Pitcairn had spoken freely, as he would to a trusted friend.
Didn’t take me long to learn how to use my friends—guess that’s what a spy’s life is like!

“Nathan!”

He turned quickly and found Abigail coming toward him, her hands outstretched.

“You’re back!”

“Just this minute, Abigail,” he said, and taking her hands he kissed one of them, which brought a smile to her full lips. She appeared to have no memory of the scene at New York, or more likely she had chosen to forget it. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I’ve been forlorn without you, Nathan,” she pouted. “Now, come and dance with me! I’ve got so much to talk to you about!”

As they moved onto the floor, Paul Winslow came up to
stand beside Pitcairn. He watched them silently, then said, “I’m surprised he came back.”

“Are you? Why is that?”

“Because he’s a Winslow!” The words were spoken with bitterness, and Paul smiled as Major Pitcairn stared at him in surprise. “Don’t let him fool you, Major.”

“Fool me? In what way, Paul”

“He may smile and seem to be your friend—but he’ll never forget that it was you who killed his brother.”

“Why, I—!”

“Oh, I realize you didn’t fire the shot.” Paul shrugged. “But Nathan won’t be able to make that distinction. It was a British bullet that killed Caleb, and he’ll never forget it.”

“But he’s always been very unsympathetic to the rebel cause.”

“That was because the conflict hadn’t hurt
him
—but that’s not true now.”

“Oh, I think Nathan will show good judgment,” Pitcairn protested uneasily.

“No, he won’t!” The words leaped out, and Paul shook his head as he went on: “My father says that his brother Adam—that’s Nathan’s father—is the most stubborn man in the world, that he always was. And I think Nathan is his father all over again. You’ve hurt him—and I tell you flat out, John, you’d better not trust him!”

Pitcairn shook his head. “You’re just saying all this because of Abigail, Paul. You’re jealous and the girl has blinded you. Nathan Winslow is an honorable man.”

“Oh, he is! And he thinks right now that his honor demands satisfaction for the blood of his brother. You can say what you please, Major, but I tell you that Nathan Winslow will never forget that day at Lexington!”

Pitcairn looked across the room, taking in the tall form of Nathan and the open face. Then he shook his head, saying, “He’ll grieve for his brother—but in the end he’ll do the wise thing.”

“Winslows don’t do the
wise
thing,” Paul said as he turned to leave. “That’s our record, I’m afraid.”

It’s all so different!
Nathan thought. Abigail’s face was framed in his vision, and the soft pressure of her body made his senses tingle, but he thought grimly:
She’s so beautiful—but if she knew what was in my heart, she’d leave me right now!

The music played on, and he held Abigail, danced, and smiled. But the thought came to him, clear as print on the page:
Sooner or later, this will end—all of it!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A NEW COMMANDER

The Boston Grenadier Corps, Laddie decided, was not particularly expert in drill; on the contrary, they handled their muskets rather clumsily, and the command “ To the rear, march” on the part of the large drill master produced instant confusion. Several of the men wheeled at once—and ran head-on into those behind them, who plowed ahead heedless of the command.

“You clumsy dolts!” The drill master was over six feet tall, and he thrust his imposing bulk through the confusion, shoving men around as if they were made of straw. He lashed at them with a high tenor voice that carried like a trumpet, leaving no doubt as to his opinion of their parentage. At last he thrust his chin toward a man standing to one side. “Williams, keep them at it for an hour!”

Laddie followed him as he stomped away from the small field where the drill continued. “Mr. Knox?” He stopped abruptly and peered down impatiently. “Mr. Adams asked me to give you this.”

“Adams?” Knox opened the envelope, and while he scanned the note, Laddie examined him curiously. He wore a splendid uniform, consisting of snowy white breeches, an emerald green coat with golden epaulets, and high-topped black boots that glistened in the sun. His face was full; a double chin lapped over the white scarf, and his bulk filled out the uniform like a sausage in its skin. He weighed almost three hundred pounds, but like many fat men, he was graceful and
very quick in his movements. His heavy face was not dull, but dominated by a pair of sparkling blue-green eyes and a mobile mouth. He wore a white silk scarf around his left hand, which was apparently crippled in some way.

Laddie found herself the target of a penetrating gaze, and remembered what Sam Adams had said of the man:
He’s a fat man and a bookworm—but don’t let him fool you. Henry Knox has got a mind like a steel trap, and if any man in the Colonies knows more about cannon and ordnance, nobody’s found out about it.

“Come along, Smith. Got to wash the taste of that drill out of my mouth.” He proceeded along the narrow streets so rapidly that Laddie had to practically run to keep up with him, and he kept up a lively conversation. “You ever see such clumsy cows? Can’t walk across the street without falling down! They look good, though, don’t they now? Every man of ’em’s got to be five feet ten—that’s the rule. Got a bunch of pretty uniforms, but my Lord, if they had to fight, they’d probably kill as many of each other as they would of the enemy!”

He led the way down twisting streets lined with tiny shops, and Laddie caught a glimpse of a sign that said METAL-WORK—PAUL REVERE over a large white building. “In here!” Knox said, and wheeled to pass under a sign that read NEW LONDON BOOKSTORE—HENRY KNOX, OWNER. He waded past a jumble of shelves and tables stuffed with flutes, wallpaper, telescopes, bread baskets, patent medicines—and books crammed into every inch of space.

“Go get your supper, Mullins,” he said, sending an elderly clerk shuffling through the shop and out the door. “Now, young fellow,” he said, shoving a chair toward Laddie, and settling down at a large desk, “you’re going to Philadelphia, Adams says?”

“Yes, sir,” Laddie answered. “Mr. Adams sent word for me to come and bring him some—information.” She hesitated slightly, for she was still uncomfortable with the task that
had been thrust upon her. Adams had gone to the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia suddenly, but in a message to Nathan he had instructed:
Send Smith here with all information. Don’t come yourself. See Henry Knox for what he may have.

Nathan had stared at the brief note, then after reading it to Laddie, said, “He’s a foxy one! Blasted note could fall into the hands of Gage himself and he’d be no wiser! So, I stay here, and you go with what we’ve got so far.” To all protests, he had said, “I think they’re watching me pretty close, Laddie, but no one would suspect you. And we won’t put anything in writing; we’ll put it in that sharp brain of yours!”

He had tousled her hair, flashed a quick smile, then begun drilling her on what information he had gleaned. Finally he had given her some money, saying, “Go see Knox—and be careful, Laddie! Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” She had thrust her hand out, and he had taken it, then instead of releasing it, had held it, opening it to look at her palm. “Mighty small hand you’ve got—like a scholar’s hand should be.” He had looked at her and she’d known instinctively he was thinking of Caleb, for he said, “I’ve lost too much, Laddie—you take care!”

Now she sat there as Knox stared at her, pondering her with a sharp glance. “Now, we’re alone—what’s this about?” He sat there and listened while Laddie haltingly explained what she was to do.

Finally when she had finished, he pulled the silk scarf from his left hand, and Laddie saw it was missing two fingers. “Shot them off while I was hunting,” he said idly, then looked up and said, “Well, my boy, you’re young for such a job, but if Adams vouches for you, I’ll not say nay. I’ll write out what I’d like to pass along, and—”